Clockwork Roses Never Bloom

The next evening when the woodcutter returned from gathering wood in the forest, he noticed that the child was quiet and unhappy.

“What troubles you?” he asked.

“There is a wolf,” the child said, “hiding behind the trees at the edge of the forest.”

The old woodcutter frowned in confusion.  “But,” he said, “there are no wolves.”

All fall, the child refused to wear the red coat.  News spread through the village that it had been a gift from the priest, and so when the villagers saw the child shivering in thin, worn shirts, they would ask, “Why aren’t you wearing your nice red coat?”

“The wolf watches when I wear it,” the child would say.

Then the villagers would shake their heads and look sadly at the child and say, “There are no wolves.”

Winter came, with its frosty breath that crept into every corner.  The ground froze, and snow fell, and at last the woodcutter’s child gave in and wore the red wool coat.  The woodcutter worked long, hard hours, gathering wood in the forest and splitting it to sell to the villagers so they could burn it in their cast-iron stoves for warmth.  He barely had a moment to spend with his child, so early did he rise and so late did he work.  It pained him dearly, even though the money that came in was enough that he could buy his child thick warm boots.

One day, when the priest had come around with his weekly baskets while the old woodcutter was away at his work, the woodcutter’s child went knocking to a neighbor’s door.

The neighbor lady opened the door.  “What is it, my dear?” she asked the child

“Just now,” said the child, “a wolf came to my window, and said that he would kill the woodcutter.”

The neighbor lady pursed her lips and waved the child away.  “There are no wolves,” she said, and shut the door.

The next evening, the woodcutter did not come home from the forest.  Nor the evening after.  The men of the village gathered together and went to go search for him in the woods.  They were not searching for long before they found him, lying dead with a gash in his throat, and his blood spilled red across the snow.

“It must have been an accident,” the men from the village said.  “He was getting old, his hand must have slipped on the axe.  It is sad, but such things happen.”

When they returned to the village with the news, and the old woodcutter’s body wrapped in a heavy blanket, his child broke down sobbing.

“It was the wolf!  The wolf killed him!”

“Now, now,” tutted the nice lady from the church who had come to help, “there are no wolves.”

The village was sorry to lose their woodcutter, but surely another of the poorest villagers would come to replace him.  And they were worried for the fate of the child, but all breathed a sigh of relief when the priest said he would take the child in.

“How fortunate we are,” the villagers said, “to have such a kind priest.”

And the priest heard this and smiled.

The next day, he went to the old woodcutter’s hut to collect the child.  He opened the door and walked inside.

“Hello, little one,” he addressed the child.

“Go away, wolf!” the child cried.

“But I have come to bring you to your new home,” said the priest, and he stepped closer.  “Who will care for you, if not me?”

The child then said nothing.

“Come, now,” said the priest, and he stepped closer.  “Won’t you bring your lovely red coat?  You look so fine in it!”

The priest smiled, and his teeth were long and sharp.

The child turned to where the red coat lay folded on the chair beside the wood stove.  But beneath the coat was concealed the woodcutter’s axe.  Whirling around, the child swung the axe straight at the priest.  As the blade sank into his shoulder, thick fur burst out all over his body, and he collapsed onto all fours.  Again and again, the child brought the axe down, hacking away at the beast until all that remained was the dead body of a wolf.